Jul 26, 2010

7 months had passed before I was to see Jim again. The night before this particular day the phone had rung; it was Jim. God I loved the sound of his voice so much! I had forgotten just how much until I heard it again. We planned to take the morning off school and meet at his house. I didn’t sleep at all that night.

My stomach started turning as soon as I saw him walking towards the door. When he opened it and I saw him standing there, I couldn't catch my breath. He let me in. He had his artwork for school all laid out, so I looked over that while he read the paper. There was an uncomfortable silence between us. Then we started watching television, still saying very little to each other. I was going crazy, screaming on the inside, “I STILL LOVE YOU!” I didn't know what to do, so I just started tickling him - just as it began the very first time; as if we were re-tracing our steps and had come full circle.

We got closer and then our lips finally met. All our buried feelings came flooding back like a tidal wave and it felt as though time had stood still for us and we had never been apart. He held on to me so tightly that it almost hurt, but I didn’t want him to ever let go. He took my hand and we went upstairs; stopping on every other stair to kiss. It took us a while to get to the top and into his room.

It felt as though we were re-living our first time together, but this time was so much more powerful because of everything we had become for each other since that day. It was over-whelming, but I managed to keep my composure while we made love. Afterwards, he remained on top of me while my legs were wrapped around him and he just stared into my eyes, played with my hair and kissed me over and over again. It was so tender and loving, like he was fascinated by my every feature. He had never done that before, not that I'm complaining.

We didn't need to say anything.

It was as if we both understood how wonderfully poetic that moment was to each other. A tear managed to escape my eye and rolled down the side of my face. He wiped it softly away with his thumb. He didn't need to ask me why I was crying, he knew already. We stayed there like that, frozen in that moment for at least an hour. The whole world could have been crumbling around us and we wouldn’t have noticed.

Finally, we got dressed and he was going to drive me back to school. It was an excruciating ride because we knew what the destination meant. It didn’t help things any that the beautifully haunting music of Portishead was playing in his CD player – talk about twisting the knife! “Cause nobody loves me, it's true; not like you do.”

His eyes were swollen, fighting back his tears the whole way to my school, as we drove in silence, listening to those heart-breaking lyrics. We had arrived; he turned the car off and looked out the window, away from me and said with a broken voice, "Goodbye... Behave... I will always love you... Goodbye."

I sat and cried for a couple minutes, prolonging the inevitable act of me actually exiting the car. He continued to look away while I cried but had found my hand and held it tightly; I didn’t even attempt to hold back anymore. I was bordering on hysterical. Tears began to roll down his face, although he tried his hardest not to let me see.

His words still repeated in my mind, "I will always love you... Goodbye.”

I stood there on the curb until his car was completely out of sight, hoping that he would turn around and come back. I could still smell his aftershave on my skin. I closed my eyes; I wanted to shut out everything to try and stop hurting. I never wanted to open my eyes again because he was gone, and we would never be together again. The finality of it all was a bit too much for me to bear – we had officially had our last precious moment as 2 people that loved each other and now would lead separate lives. I still had 3 weeks before I left, but I don't think either of us could have said goodbye again. I know now that it was just as difficult for him as it was for me. It shouldn't have had to be like that! People should be together when they are in love. Fuck what anyone else thought! Who were we really hurting? No one!

But there we were, and I had just watched my soul mate drive away
and out of my life.

My legs felt completely numb;
I fell to the grown as if I had melted into the cement.

Jul 21, 2010

I never spent all that much time with my mother. She spent most of my life off in some mysterious place with mysterious people doing mysterious things. Being that I was a little girl, I had an image of her in my head standing by a bus station, holding onto a brown suitcase with both hands, waiting for the bus to arrive and take her home. Even though that home was never with us, I figured I could at least see her. There was a time when I couldn't even remember what she looked like, let alone remembered anything too solid. I remembered nights in her tiny apartment on the couch, watching Are You Afraid of the Dark? and Goosebumps with her and my brother. I remembered something about buying a painted gold jewellery box at a second hand store, and some vagueness surrounding her paper maché masks and dark drawings. A street festival on Barton? By the time I was 12, I was on the cusp of believing that she might not be magic after all. But then, that would have lead me to an even sadder conclusion, so maybe I held on too long.

It was almost the summer when my dad told me he'd found out she was schizophrenic, and sat me down (as he always did, talked to me like an adult, bless him) and told me everything he'd understood from their un-talked about relationship from before. She and her younger sister had been given up for adoption, that I knew, though why the other 6 children were kept within the family, I don't know. She'd been 8 when she'd left home with her. Through foster care after foster care, she'd been abused, stories I don't know but imagine the worst and eventually it lead to...well, insanity. I'd been dumbfounded but didn't cry: big things never make me cry, I just felt something else...a feeling so intensely bad/angry/sickening I wanted to rip out my own stomach. Dry faced and a little too sober-minded, I nodded at him and still believed she was magic.

This was new information, all of it, to me, something we didn't mention to my brother (through autism, he may have lacked some compassion, some discretion, some I don't know what but we just couldn't) so it all felt like some hideous secret I alone had. It was like witnessing a murder and not being able to go to the police. Like watching a fatal car wreck and not knowing who to call. All that, and that had been years ago. Mom was fine now, wasn't she? She'd come back a few years ago, and not a hint of it...She played chess with my brother and watched cartoons with me, helped me draw and took us to Value Village for things sometimes. She smiled; she had a boyfriend (who didn't hit her, big surprise!) and nothing seemed out of whack.

Until my dad came to me one day, while I was in Grade 8 (two months after my 13th birthday) and told me that she'd been admitted into a mental institution because she hadn't been on her medication for months. If there was anything passed that initial statement, I don't remember it, because I simply nodded and kept writing my story on his laptop. Things didn't really change after that, passed the usual comments from friends my age who didn't really understand the situation all that well. I sort of moved about the house in a daze until a month later when she was allowed to call me, and even then there wasn't much to say. She sounded okay, always tired and as I murmured about my day I had this feeling something was wrong, very different (this is later how I would sum up the word 'perturbed').

Now, the next incident I don't even remember. Dad had handed me the phone to talk to mom and as he stood in the room, I had paled about two minutes in to the conversation. I dropped the phone and went upstairs and even now, neither of us know what it was that was said. I couldn't even give the gist of it. All I know is that my dad witnessed this, and it was the first time I was ever aware of actively, and almost immediately, suppressing a memory. Given what I've heard that she'd said to my father, to her boyfriend, to my step-mother at the time now, I couldn't even fathom what kind of words could have come out of her mouth. I've heard them all, I would like to think by now: Her midnight phone calls to my father, asking if I were pregnant, insisting that my brother had raped me. Her calls to her boyfriend about picking up her fictional daughter Ursula up from school (a girl who'd never existed, and even now the name makes me sick). Her hallucinations of wasps chasing her, calling her a paedophile. After that phone call, dad ceased all contact and I didn't talk to her for 8 months...not that not talking to her was an unusual thing.

When she left the hospital, finally, back on her drugs, she wasn't the same at all. She giggled a lot, gained weight, could no longer concentrate on chess, or reading, or art...she forgot all the French she knew and she never ever recovered to her normal self. Crudely put, she fried her brain. All because when she told her therapist she'd stopped taking medication, her therapist insisted that this independent decision was a good step. The only reason she went back on them is because my dad said she'd never see us again if she didn't.

I visit her now, it's been about 7 years since she was admitted and she seems fine – even if neither focus nor intelligence comes naturally to her anymore. She still doesn't draw, she tries to play chess and she's happy. At least we have that.

Any effect on me seems to have been fairly side-stepped. While I became an artist to become like my mother, it's my obsession and passion now. While I could hate her, I really don't, despite a lingering and severe fear of abandonment, especially serial cases. Through all of it, the only thing that made me cry was the fact that I now give her the advice she should be giving me...tips on shaving, make-up and clothes. Sometimes job advice, other times budgeting. And while she'd getting better, sometimes it's so frustratingly slowly that I want to scream and cry and throw a fit and have a childhood for the first time in my life, but I don't. As usual, quiet, dry-eyed, taking deep breaths and thinking about it. And anyway, I get the crying out for small things like broken necklaces, raging meaningless arguments and losing video games. I had to carve my own female idol, but I'm not too disappointed with how it all turned out. I have a good Dad and between us we do fine.

Jul 19, 2010

When I was in grade 8 it was in fashion to get more than 1 ear piercing in one or both ears. One or two of my friends had gotten a second earring, but it wasn’t completely mainstream at this point. I really wanted to get mine done, badly! I loved accessorizing, even from a young age. I didn’t have the figure to always wear the clothes that I wanted to; on the inside I was a size 4, but on the outside, I was a 14. At least accessories always fit and helped me to express myself. I couldn’t fit into the tight-fitting funky flared jeans, but at least I could wear the baby blue Kangol hat and co-ordinated Doc Marten boots. They took the attention away from the only style of boring-ass men’s jeans from Mark’s Work Warehouse that fit my figure properly.

And then there was my jewellery... I loved almost anything silver, however the more unique, the better. By the time I was 14, I probably had at least 30 silver rings and too many pendants and earrings to count. All of a sudden there emerged this trend where I should add more holes to my body... that could hold more jewellery! Where could I sign up? I couldn’t wait!

My mother was adamantly against me getting a second earring. She said that one pair was nice, but anything more than that was trashy. She told me that people would think that I’m easy. Now, my mother was a younger mom and was normally pretty progressive, but when she said that I was stunned. It was like I was talking to an old granny. I could even picture her holding a cane in one hand, and with the other waving her boney finger while yelling, “You crazy kids these days!"

I tried bringing up the topic off and on for a couple months – thinking that I could wear her down if she saw that it wasn’t just a fleeting idea and that I really, really wanted to get it done. The answer was always the same and a little louder each time, “Nooooo!”

Finally, I got fed up with my mother’s constant refusal to understand me, and I took matters into my own hands. I sterilized a diaper pin and got a few cubes of ice and went to my room. On any normal day, the thought of needles almost made me pass out, so I still don’t know how I was able to go through with it. I guess my anger and adrenaline helped me power through it.

I sandwiched my earlobe with 2 ice cubes for a good while, until it was really red and cold. I began to push the diaper pin through my earlobe. It wasn’t nearly as sharp as an actual piercing needle, so it went slower than I had hoped. I could hear it breaking through every layer of skin – like a popping sound. Pop – pop – pop! Yuck. I gagged a few times, but I had gone too far to quit at that point. I finally got it to poke through the other side. POP! I took a deep breath. My ear was bright purple and I could feel it throbbing – but I must say that the ice cubes did help. I didn’t really feel a terrible pain, just uncomfortable and disgusting. I waited for a few minutes with the pin hanging from my ear before I attempted exchanging it with an earring.

When I did finally get up the courage, it hurt much more than the diaper pin! Even though they were proper piercing earrings (my original ones from when I got my first pair done) I was, in fact, poking something into an open wound. Ouch, ouch... Done! I must have been insane because then I did the other ear. It went a bit faster the second time.

Now, you’re thinking... wouldn’t her mother see them right away and make her take them out? Well, again, current fashion trends came to my rescue. It was the early 90s and some remnants of 80s geometric fashion were still lingering around like a bad stench. I had a pair of huge plastic circle earrings – I think I originally got them for a Cyndi Lauper costume I wore for Halloween the year before. When I put them on, they completely covered the second piercings. Perfect!

I was able to hide what I had done for a good couple weeks and then both holes got a little infected (big surprise) and I had to take them out on my own volition. I was so sad that my master plan didn’t turn out as I had hoped. My mother saw my slightly mutilated earlobes the next morning as I had them smeared in Polysporin.

I snapped at her, “Don’t even say it! They’re gone, OK?”

She shook her head and walked away. I could hear her laughing and my ears got even hotter and redder than they already were.

Jul 12, 2010

I had this guy friend that I was significantly close with during our first year of University. He had seen me through some break-ups and I had seen him through some of his. It was a long time before I began to develop deeper feelings for him, and I fought these every step of the way – mainly because I knew that the possibility of him returning these affections was just about slim to none. He was disgustingly hung up on my roommate – typical. She was very cute, I will admit that, but also astonishingly ignorant, two-faced and slightly insane, not to mention that she had a long term boyfriend that wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. So, both he and I were cursed to live in this secretly torturous and unrequited love triangle for the rest of the year.

At one point late in that year, we had been drinking a lot and the two of us found ourselves alone together and we sat on one of the outside benches. He proposed the possibility of me and him becoming roommates the next year, along with a couple others. The alcohol in my blood stream wasn’t going to let me stay quiet and much to my inner horror the tears started to flow as I proclaimed, “B...b...but, I can’t live with you... I love you too much!” Oh fuck. I guess the cat was out of the bag then – no turning back. He was really good about it though – from what I can remember – I was a drunken train wreck that night. He understood and it surprisingly didn’t affect our friendship after that day – although we never brought it up either, not even in joking.

Guess who he ended up living with instead? I cringe even when I think of it... the two-faced insane chick, Andrea! So even though I had wisely decided that I wasn’t going to be a glutton for punishment, he thought he would do it instead. For a very intelligent guy, he sure was stupid when it concerned the affairs of his heart. I have no idea what went on in that house that year, but I couldn’t see it being a very emotionally healthy situation.

So, it was about mid-year and a large group of us had gone out for a bender at the pub around the corner from where they lived off campus. I still lived on campus, which was a fair distance away, and the last train of the night had long since gone. I stayed at their place, and my other girlfriend that lived there had a boyfriend, so I wasn’t going to be staying in her room that night. I suggested that I crash in his bed, and he gave me a ‘look’ as if to say, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I responded even before he could verbalize it with a slurred justification, “Jamie, get over yourself. I need to pass out now. I’ll stick to the left side!” So I did, with my back facing him and I passed out almost instantly.

A few hours must have gone by when I was awoken by him softly rubbing my back and playing with my hair. I was completely lucid, but I remained facing the wall for a few seconds, contemplating what the next move would be and how this could either be a wonderful thing, or a complete catastrophe. I rolled over and said one thing to him very sternly, “ARE-YOU-SURE?”

He nodded his head and whispered a faint “Yes” in assurance as he leaned in to kiss me. It quickly led to us having sex. It meant so much more to me than it did to him, but I knew what I was getting myself into. I had no expectations; I just wanted to be with him at that moment and that’s all that mattered.

Of course, the events of that night were made known by a couple people– it was almost impossible to keep a secret in that crazy house, which meant that Andrea knew what happened between Jamie and me. Two weeks had past and we all went out again for another drinking marathon. Jamie was sitting across from me when Andrea showed up. She skipped directly over to him and sat on his lap and put her arms around him. She shot me a devious smile before batting her eyes at Jamie and giving him a kiss on the cheek. Now, I know I have some personality flaws, but jealousy is not one of them – I never had an issue with it in high school, ever. I was also painfully aware that I had no claim to Jamie and that what had happened between us would probably never happen again, but something snapped inside me that night.

The alcohol couldn’t have exactly helped... but a jealous rage filled my stomach like a noxious acid and it was corroding me from the inside. I smiled back at Andrea and pretended that it didn’t bother me, but simultaneously I was imagining myself lunging across the table and beating that smug look off her face until she was black and blue. It’s unfortunate that she behaved the way she did – it is women like her that sadly make some women enemies of each other and I never fully understood that concept until that night. I was utterly astounded that she could take so much pleasure in hurting me – she knew exactly how I felt about Jamie. I never really cared for her before that night, but she reached a new low and I was done with her toxicity for good.

At 21, I would like to think that I had matured a bit since my tumultuous early teens, but the intense jealousy and hatred I felt that night took me totally by surprise and I clearly wasn’t out of the woods just yet. I decided that I needed to take a break from that crowd for a while and reclaim control over my emotions. Miraculously, Jamie and I maintained our friendship and even had sex a couple more times, but I never again went to visit their crazy little Melrose Place.

Jul 9, 2010

There was a guy, Jason, in my grade 12 health class that I had fallen for pretty seriously. He was a fantastic flirt, but didn’t seem interested in fully returning my affections for the longest time. I pined away over him for what had felt like an eternity, and then finally I must have worn him down. We got together shortly before high school had ended and then we both moved away to schools in different towns which were significantly far apart. We had made no assumptions that we would try to stay monogamous during this time– we were pretty realistic about how things worked during university. Although we both were having a good time with other people (to which was implied but never discussed) we also shared many late night phone calls (mostly when my will power was weakened by alcohol) that usually ended in the exchange of mutual feelings of love and quite a few tears. I used to try to get my house mates to hide the phone on me if I knew I was going to be drinking that night. There was a 5 hour time difference between us – which worked out perfectly when I was feeling sorry for myself at 3 o’clock in the morning.

We had made the 4 year plan, which meant that we would go about our lives, doing what we had to do, and sewing the oats we needed to sew – and then after we graduated, we would be together and inevitably get married. It was a done deal and I pretty much ignored any possible suitors’ advances because of it. I had a few flings and good times, but I always knew there wasn’t much point in searching for any semblance of a relationship with another guy when I had already found my soul mate in Jason.

The summer after we completed our first year, I had the option at starting my summer job earlier, but I had saved my money all year and instead, I planned on flying out to see him for a month and then would start work in July, as usual. At the time I made these plans, Jason was working at a discount department store part-time, and he had mentioned that he had gone out a few times with his boss. She was about 7 years older than us, and slightly on the un-educated side. It didn’t seem to me to be anything worth getting worried about... I mean... really? A couple times I had jokingly asked him how his 'trashy cougar' was doing. He would just laugh, but never answered.

When I got there a few weeks later, she was still in the picture... and what a picture. I hated to resort to social snobbery, but she really wasn’t anything remotely close to the type of people that Jason and I were used to socialising with. She thought that tights and an over-sized T-shirt qualified as an acceptable outfit to wear in public. (That sounded catty, I know, I couldn’t help it.) I still managed to respect her space and I didn’t behave like a predator or like I was trying to make her life difficult. What was the point? Jason and I still had 3 years left of school before our plan kicked in, and I was certain she would be ancient history by then!

Jason and I spent as much time as we could together. It was almost like the time when we first met – underlying tension that wasn’t acted upon for ages. I didn’t mind; I understood the situation and I just loved spending time with him. A few days before it was time for me to leave, he took me for a drive to a beautiful look-out. He must have planned it out ahead of time, because he was prepared with our favourite CD. One of the songs was playing when we first kissed, so it was special to us both. As that song came on, we leant in towards each other and kissed; it was a perfect moment. We kissed for the entire song and then stopped when it had finished – like hearing that song created a void to which we could escape in to and be together, just for a few magnificent minutes. After that kiss, we re-confirmed that we still loved each other and we would surely end up together, just like we planned.

When I arrived back to school, there was an email waiting for me from Jason. It wasn’t long but it shattered my entire world:

Ashley is 10 weeks pregnant and she is keeping the baby. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you when you were here, but I didn’t want to hurt you. I really do love you, but this is what life has dealt us. I hope you understand that this is what I have to do. Love always, Jason.

WHAT YOU FUCKING ‘HAVE’ TO DO? I was absolutely devastated and furious. My heart was thumping with pure anger. Why wasn’t he more careful? Why? WHY? I read it about a dozen times and then I focused on ‘10 weeks pregnant’ and I quickly did the math and counted back the weeks. My plans to visit Jason were confirmed and made known 12 weeks before that moment. How-fucking-disgusting – is all I could think. She had done it on purpose – I was positive. It was the one sure way she could have guaranteed he wouldn’t leave her for me when I arrived; I felt sick to my stomach.

The major flaw of email is that it is instantaneous. In my state of utter rage and repulsion, I replied, stating my hypothesis, and what he had done to me... to US... to OUR future. What the hell was he doing with me up at the look-out that night when he knew full well that we were doomed... and let me believe that everything was fine?! Not only did he keep the truth from me, but he actually went out of his way to lie to me and lead me on that night!

The next day, he responded by writing things that I didn’t even think he was capable of... saying very hurtful things to me; very personal attacks. He actually tried to turn it around as if I was the evil one and how dare I suggest such an unspeakable idea! He ended the email by calling me a few choice names and that he never wanted to hear from me again.

... And just like that, everything we had planned for and a love that I was so sure was eternal had vanished. I cried and cried until I convinced myself that I couldn’t possibly have had any more tears left. I was resentful and miserable for a long time after that.

A couple years had passed and I had been long-since over him – I had fallen in love again and had been in a relationship for quite a while. By pure chance, I happened to be in the same town again... the week of his birthday, no less. I thought it would be a nice gesture to call him and wish him a happy birthday. He picked up the phone and when I greeted him, he immediately hung up on me. That was the last time I ever tried to contact him.

Jul 5, 2010

It was the summer after my second year of university and I was back from residence and suffering from parental overload. A lot of my friends had either stayed in the cities to which their university was located or were busy with jobs. I had a pre-arranged night shift job close to my home town every summer, and I didn’t have a boyfriend to help pass the time in the afternoons – it was just me, my over-bearing parents and my boring-ass factory job – fuckin’ save me!

Well... someone upstairs heard my cries because one rare night I was out at the local pub district and I ran into one of my ex-boyfriends’ closest friends. Now, this may seem like no biggie, but this was not just any guy – Greg was the main focus of my clandestine lust for the better part of a year. The entire time I dated his friend, I secretly wished it was him. Many times that we were in bed, I even fantasized that it was Greg instead – it helped our sex life greatly – although the poor guy would have been crushed if he found out the ‘real’ reason why I was so horny all the time.

It was a damn miracle that I never called out Greg’s name by accident!

Close to two years had gone by since that awkward situation, and since I’d seen him at all, but nothing had changed. The moment I saw him, my stomach did I few back flips of sexual joy and I quickly ditched my friends to go over and talk to him. We had always got along before, with innocent flirtations and good conversation, so it wasn’t a surprise when he gave me a giant hug when he saw me.

“JOCK! O my god! How the hell are ya?” (I played softball, and in comparison to him and his pot-smoking, rockstar lifestyle burn-out friends, that made me an uber-athlete, to which they loved teasing me about.)

After a few minutes of catching up (and me striping him naked with my eyes) he gave me another hug along with his phone number. He insisted that I gave him a call and we could hang out sometime. Wow, God doesn’t hate me after all! I tried not to be too eager, even though it was the phone call I had wanted to make for the last 3 years! I had wanted to get in touch with him after I broke up with his friend, but wasn’t sure about the proper protocol or acceptable ‘cooling off period’ that followed that situation. This time, I waited about a week – it was one of the longest weeks of my life, although my day dreaming of possible scenarios did help the time go faster at my otherwise mind-numbing job.

There was also the possibility that Greg was just trying to be nice when I saw him that night, so I was still nervous about calling him. I had never spoken to him on the phone before. When I called he seemed genuinely happy to hear from me and suggested that I came over to his place the next day. We had a great time together; I had forgotten how much I enjoyed his company, even though nothing physical happened between us that night... or the ones that followed.

I had started making a routine of spending a couple hours at his place before I went to my night job a few nights a week; it became my refuge. Although the sexual tension was so incredible between us (at least I thought so from my perspective), I had pretty much concluded that too much time had passed for us to go down that road. A few times some of his friends stopped by unexpectedly, including my ex-boyfriend. Apart from some initial confused looks and a few awkward silences, no one ever brought up the elephant in the corner, so we just left it alone. I think it was safe to say that enough time had passed that it wasn’t really their business anyway.

It was close to the end of the summer by this point and I would shortly move back to school residence. I was pleasantly surprised how the later part of my summer had turned out. I had gone over to Greg’s place for our normal mid-week hang out, but this time was different. He did something that he hadn’t done in over 3 years – he called me by my real name; I had never heard it sound so sexy.

He had called me over to him, affectionately.

My heart was racing as I walked towards him – for a split second I thought I was going to pass out from the anticipation... No mixed signals; I was certain what was about to happen.

As soon as I was close enough, we dove into each other and finally engaged in a 3-year-long-overdue kiss. It was mind-blowing, but also a bit of a blur at the same time – like we had simmered the pot for way too long and got so hot that it just exploded into a million pieces.

We had already wasted enough time... we staggered over to his bed, undressing each other and never stopped kissing the entire journey. I had imagined this moment so many times that I was almost in disbelief that it was actually happening. I had desired him for so damn long so I wanted to savour every inch of his body. The foreplay and oral sex lasted a euphoric eternity – it was actually fun as well as erotic. I didn’t normally enjoy giving head, but I loved every second of it with him.

I even swallowed – which I’ve done only a couple times in my life. We had both already climaxed and we hadn’t even had intercourse yet.

We took a quick break to catch our breath and he went to search for a condom. I enjoyed watching his bare ass hoping around his room – until he came back with bad news – no condom.

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!

A part of me wanted to cry in disappointment, but I laughed it off and lovingly called him an idiot or something along those lines. He joined me back in his bed and we gently kissed and enjoyed just being together... finally, after all that time.

I moved back to university that weekend and I missed him terribly, but it is unbelievable how distracting life can become; Before I noticed, a month had passed since that night we were together, and then a year.

Jul 3, 2010

When I was in grade 13 (high school went to 13 when I was at school), I was really into Alternative music and everything that went along with it. There were always a few school bands on the go, and they usually played similar styles of music, although crappier versions of the ‘real’ thing. This was normally the case until I was reluctantly dragged to some high school battle of the bands event and there was a band that performed that really stood out. Their songs were surprisingly polished, had good lyrics with catchy tunes... and fantastically alternative. I almost could feel myself transforming into a groupie, and to top it off, I was completely smitten with their drummer; I had selected my prey. He was my kind of hot which meant a slightly stalky, teddy bear kind of guy. He had a short, spiked hair style with some blue colouring streaked through it. His clothing consisted of a fitted retro logo ringer T-shirt with an un-buttoned bowler shirt over-top, loose fitting cargo pants, Doc Marten boots and a big chain that connected his wallet to his pants.

I WANT HIM NOW! WHO IS THAT CUTIE AND WHY HAVEN’T I SEEN HIM AT SCHOOL?

Well, I quickly found out why... he was only 16 and in grade 10 (which meant he had a different lunch period than seniors, and had little opportunity to interact with juniors). OK, so he was 3 years younger than me (which is a huge gap in a high school context), but I still couldn’t ignore the carnal attraction I had to this guy. Then more news filtered in... this guy had a girlfriend... and she was in grade 9! BAHAHA. I didn’t even see that information as an issue. I was about to commence in sexual warfare with a little 14 year old girl. No contest.

I made my intentions known to this guy right away. I wasn’t normally so forward with guys, but I felt that I could use my ‘older woman’ angle to my advantage, and it gave me courage I had no idea I possessed. I attended all their subsequent shows for a couple months. I really did think they were a very talented band, so that helped. The little girlfriend came to the ‘All Ages’ gigs, but at the licensed events, he was all mine. We would hang out in between sets and sometimes after the gig. I could buy alcohol; I had my own car and was sexually experienced and assertive... which in itself was like Spanish Fly to many 16 year old boys. A lot of my friends knew about the latest focus of my affections – they called it my Baby Rocker Project.

The little girlfriend really started to hate me. She and her friends would give me dirty looks in the hall – like I gave a shit. Grade 9 students were like ants, physically and socially, and I was a monarchical senior, top of the food chain. Actually, I found it amusing! I never did anything directly to her – although she despised me for pursuing her boyfriend (which was totally understandable) if I did confront her, she probably would have cried or something annoying like that. Then, I would have just felt like a nasty bitch and it would have ruined all my fun. I much preferred the label of Predatory Skank, thank you very much!

Finally, after a 19+ gig they did at the local pub (band members’ ages excluded, of course), the band hung around with a group of us. He still managed to get a hold of a few drinks, and we were having a great time together. After last call, the two of us had made our way outside. The shop across from the pub had a 4 step porch, and I led him over to it. I couldn’t take it anymore; I felt I had done my due-diligence for the past 2 months and now it was pay day. I sat down on the top step, spread my legs apart and pulled him in towards me by grabbing his belt buckle. He didn’t object thus far, so as he knelt down in front of me, I wrapped my legs around him and went in for the kiss and it was fabulous! Being the eager kid that he was, he went directly for the under-the-top boob action... and I couldn’t care less.

Go for it, kiddo!

I’m sure that was still forbidden territory with his tweenie girlfriend. He was pressing up so close to me, I could feel how hard he was and I took that opportunity to do some of my own feeling around. His euphoric moans for these basic 101 moves were an indication that this was not a common occurrence for him – it was definitely a step up his intensity ladder. We were there for only a few minutes and then his older brother appeared around the corner, looking for him to drive home. He jumped up and said, “Pleeease, don’t tell my girlfriend!” Of course I never did; I didn’t care enough to.

I pretty much lost interest after that; I finally got what I had come for. I had completed my Baby Rocker Project and was satisfied with the results. I still occasionally listened to his CD, but I really wasn’t trying to pursue him for a potential relationship – that would have just been silly; he was in fact way too young for me during high school. I just wanted a good old fashioned Band Member & Groupie make-out session, with our vintage T-shirts rubbing up against each other, and that’s exactly what I got.

Jul 1, 2010

My first love affair began when I was 7 years old; Paul was in my grade 1 class and even back then he was a ‘baby hottie’. We were inseparable... that is, until his family moved far away the next year. Amazingly, we managed to keep in touch the old fashioned way – pen pals. I still have letters from him dating back from when we were about 9. About once a year, our parents would arrange for us to spend a day together somewhere half way between our towns. It was really special, because even though we lead different lives, in a way, we still grew up together.

When we were 12, he had come to one of my friends’ big Italian family party. It turned out that he was a distantly related to them. It was so great to see him that day. We had more time that usual to catch up and spend time together. When it was time for him to leave, he leaned in and gave me my first kiss. I would never be certain if he meant it as just an overly-affectionate Italian-style kiss, but it lasted long enough that at least I was convinced that it meant a little more. It took me my complete surprise, but I remember it as such a sweet and tender moment.

Fast forwarding 4 years to high school, grade 10 and we still had managed to maintain a long-distance friendship. He was getting more handsome ever year – and I remained generally the same – slightly on the plus size of things. Since our junior kiss, neither of us displayed any eager hints to try to take things further between us. We just felt so comfortable together, and he always made me feel special. He was such a gentleman and made me feel like a million bucks whenever we went out. It wasn’t a feeling I often had at that age. He opened doors and pulled my chair out for me – according to the guys at my high school, chivalry was long since dead – so it was a really pleasant experience.

I never had a date to the holiday formal dances (which began in grade 10 and continued through to grade 13), so I invited Paul every year. If no guy from my school was going to ask me, then I was at least going to show up with the hottest date that side of the district. I always felt like a princess arriving on his arm and we also had so much fun together. There was never any awkwardness between us – we just enjoyed each other’s company. OK, so it didn’t hurt that by then he had begun to mature into an Italian Heart Throb, but it definitely wasn’t the ‘only’ reason.

Finally, it was time for the dreaded high school senior prom and surprise! – I was ‘sans boyfriend’ once again. I did have a couple boyfriends sprinkled throughout my high school timeline, but they never seemed to over-lap Valentine’s Day or formal events. It was like a curse! Luckily, Paul was more than happy to accompany me once again. We were 19 by this point, and a group of us had planned to go all out for this main event so we rented a hotel room.

I wore a black velvet fitted floor-length dress with capped sleeves and empire waist (it was very Audrey Hepburn) and black satin gloves that went on for miles. My $50 hair doo was up-swept in curls with pins and a few high-lighted jewels – and I looked shit hot! By midnight, it all had been shoved under a Mike Hard Lemonade baseball cap, the hem was torn on my dress, and my gloves had at least 2 cigar burns in them. Classy! We freely rotated between the bar at the dance and the stock of booze we already had in our room upstairs.

After a good number of trips back and forth, Paul and I had stayed in the room to relax for a few minutes, away from the madness. We were very drunk and were sharing a joke about something when we both collapsed on the bed. He smiled at me, took my baseball cap off and looked me right in the eyes. Suddenly, through my drunken fog, I saw that same boy that had given me my first kiss 7 years earlier. He brought me in close and started kissing me. It wasn’t strange at all – it was like it was destined to happen, and so it finally had.

We were rounding 3rd base when 2 significant things happened simultaneously. The rest of our group arrived at the door, pounding to let them in; and secondly, the room started spinning, badly. If we did manage to start having sex, I probably would have barfed all over him, so it was the best-awful timing when they showed up. We quickly fumbled to get re-dressed and allowed the rest of the mob into the room. My girlfriends knew that nothing had been previously brewing between Paul and me, so they never even clued in to what we had been up to – and what they had inconveniently interrupted.

It was nearing the end of the night and we had all started dropping off. The next morning we all had our usual hangover breakfast together and shared stories about crazy events from that night before. He went back to his distant life as usual, and I maybe saw him a couple times throughout university. We never really had a fiery love affair by any means, but there is no question that he would forever hold the position of being my childhood sweetheart – although I don’t even think that would be the proper label for what he meant to me, since it spanned almost half of my life.